


heavy is the crown

by AceQueenKing



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: Bickering, F/M, Heavy is the Crown of the King, Politics, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21952474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Hades knew that, however bad his day was, it had gotten substantially worse the moment that he caught Hermes ripping a piece of paper off of the Styx’s wall, the expression on his face suggesting, at best, a deer in the headlights.“Hermes,” he said; he held out his hand. Hermes looked at him, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.
Relationships: Hades & Hermes, Hades & The Workers, Hades/Persephone (Hadestown), Persephone & the Workers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 77
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	heavy is the crown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kay_obsessive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_obsessive/gifts).



Hades knew that, however bad his day was, it had gotten substantially worse the moment that he caught Hermes ripping a piece of paper off of the Styx’s wall, the expression on his face suggesting, at best, a deer in the headlights.

“Hermes,” he said; he held out his hand. Hermes looked at him, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Hades,” he said, sweet as he only ever was when he was lying. Calling him _Mister_ Hades, that meant it was trouble indeed, for Hermes only showed respect when there was absolutely no other recourse. Hermes shook his head with the desperate zeal of a dying man; Hades merely raised an eyebrow.

“Hermes,” he said; he held out his hand.

“Don’t,” Hermes said, soft and high. “Trust me, uncle, you do not want—”

“Hermes,” he said; he held out his hand.

Hermes winced and held out his hand. He dropped the flier into Hades’ waiting palm. He made a movement to dash; Hermes was never the type to stick around when trouble was about but he may well need the boy for context.

“Hermes,” he said. “Stay.”

Hermes looked, thoroughly, like a fish on a hook.

He unfolded the paper, taking his time to smooth out the paper out of pure spite. It was rough stuff; from the west mill, he could tell. Not finished properly. Pinched off his lines.

Hades did not like workers pinching supplies. His annoyance at that, however, was nothing compared ot the rage that blew through him when he saw what was printed there: _Feeling Upside Down? Come to Our Lady of the Underground’s;_ a crude drawing of a very specific flask, one he’d made long ago; _When is the Last Time You Tasted Moonlight?_ He moved one finger over the word moonlight, felt coal rub off on his hands – so, one of the mine children had _also_ conspired with the west mill _and_ , worse of all, his wife.

His nostrils flared; he scrunched it between his palms, wishing it was Hermes' face. Hermes blanched.

“I told you, please, don’t—” Hermes held out both hands. “She isn’t doing anything—”

“I did not _ask_ for your opinion,” he hissed. He shoved the paper in his pocket, glared. “Dismissed.”

Hermes stared at him as he turned his back; he felt the eyes on him, but he stalked back toward his home without returning the glare. He had only eyes for one person, the betrayer who hurt him the most.

* * *

Persephone was in her garden.

It was a small thing, and were he in a better mood, he would watch her for a moment, taken back to how he felt so many years ago, seeing her for the first time. She was still a gloriously beautiful woman, as perfect as she had been the moment he had first spied upon her in her mother’s flowers.

But he was _not_ in a good mood, and he was too hurt to think of any pleasant times. She knew it the second he entered; her face went from beautiful queen to surly drunk within seconds. He decided not to prove her wrong.

For a moment they stared at one another, both pitiless.

“Well,” she said, breaking the silence; she took a swig of her flask before continuing. “What’s crawled up your drawers?”

“You,” he said, furious; she raised her eyebrows.

“Think I’d recall if I did such,” she sauntered forward, her hips swaying as she tucked the flask back into her breasts. “Tends to be a memorable event.”

That much was true. But he would not allow himself to be distracted. He reached into his pocket, tossed the crude little poster to her.

“Oh,” she said with a scoff; she tossed it behind her, as if it wasn’t proof of her very own betrayal. “That all?”

“You’ve no right to try to turn them against me,” he warned, one finger tossed in her face. “The dead are _my_ purview, _not_ yours—”

She made an ugly noise, a _tssschh_ sucked between her teeth. “You lost them yourself. I’m just stoppin’ ‘em from tearin’ down your walls. Takes a lot of hope to keep Pluto running to the Pleiades.”

“You’ve betrayed me,” he said; damnably, his chin wavered a bit, and she saw it. He hated how she looked at him, her eyes warm, but not with desire – with pity.

“Oh, lover.” She walked up to her, placed her hands on his cheek and stared deep into his eyes. He did not look away; no one knew him better, and he enjoyed the feel of her, damnable betrayal aside.

He leaned forward and she rose up to meet him, giving him a kiss that was more teeth than lip, angry but hungry and made him only hungry for more. She stroked at his chin for half a moment, gentle as his darling wife could be. Then she smiled, but it was a curdled sort of smile, closer to a snarl than anything sweet.

“Fact is, you may own everyone and everything down here.” She turned away from him, sauntered back to one of her many plantings – a nightshade of some sort of another, he thought. Perhaps potatoes for her potash; she rarely made any sort of vegetable that couldn’t ferment into some sort of liquor or another. She held out her hand, let it grow under her fingertips. “But fact is, my husband, it takes more than scratch to stay in power. You gotta play _politics_.” She glanced toward him, wariness on her face. “I'm just keeping the peace, stoppin’ them from storming _your_ gates, tearing down _your_ walls. Man you _used_ to be understood that.”

“The man I was starved to death,” he snapped. “From a cruel woman who couldn’t be bothered to be loyal to _her_ husband—”

“I’ve always been loyal to you,” she said, and there was fury in her eyes, and hurt too buried deep underneath it. He saw it, he chose to ignore it. An old argument, this. “I’ve _loved_ you—”

“Odd ways of showing it,” he spit. “Six months gone, now this little bar…” He raised a hand, gently put it on her shoulder. She’d hurt him badly. He knew she knew she had, for her hand grasped his own, gently squeezed it.

“Can’t help how things are,” she said, whisper-quiet. “But if you crush this, Hades, you will regret it.”

“And you’d lead them if they rebelled?” She was the only threat down here; the only person who could beat him in a fight one on one. He could never bear to harm her; she turned back to him, and he saw all his vulnerabilities in her. And hated each and every one. 

“No,” she said. “I’m yours. Made that choice long ago; wouldn’t turn against it now.” She was likely telling the truth; her beautiful eyes stayed on his, and she did not blink.

He took a deep breath; he had every intention, in truth, of crushing this little Rebellion; best to snuff out the scout before battalions formed. “What would _you_ have me do?” He held out his ring. “I _am_ the King.”

“Keep your head down,” she said, soft. “Let them have their fun, and let it go beneath your notice. Ain’t worthy of a King’s time.”

He thought about it; a long moment passed as he weighed the thought of it, of her little bar, and the workers blowing off steam there, their aggravations and fears blowing off like so much smoke. He knew how his wife found such appealing, but he knew, too, that a small rebellion quickly became a larger one; who knew better than him how quickly the subjugated desired to become the ruling class? He’d thrown down the Titans who had dared to yolk him as a child; he would throw down his own children if it came to it.

“No,” he said, finally; she sighed, her shoulders sagging down to the ground. “I can’t do that, Persephone.”

“On your own head be it,” she spat; he smirked.

“Our head,” he said; her mouth formed a thin line. He squeezed her hand in a wordless goodbye. She did not squeeze his back.

He didn’t look back as he stormed out; the workers would be heading out to their bars, and he had nothing to do but lie in wait.

* * *

Waiting did not come easy to Hades. He was not a patient man. He was, however, a fair man, and he did not and would not blame the workers who were innocent for the capriciousness of those who decided to imbibe in his wife’s little bar.

It had been easy to find; the floral garlands a dead give-away. She’d never intended to keep it secret forever, and he could not decide whether or not he felt such was a relief, or yet another sign that his wife was becoming more daring, subverting his role from under his nose.

That, however, was an issue for later.

It took him only an hour of stewing in the shadows before his search proved fruit; several workers approached the bar, which was well-staffed – how long, he thought, had Persephone been thumbing her nose at him? A thought for another time.

“Oooph, I need this,” one of the shades grumped; a large man, he made an impressive crack of his knuckles as he veered toward the Underground. “Came this close to clockin’ the boss today.”

“Nice way to go to the great beyond,” another said – this one, a woman, dark with coal-dust all over her skin. “Better to just mess up the barrels a bit. Everyone knows he doesn’t care ‘bout people, just product.”

That was enough; he smirked from his place in the shadows. Oh yes, he would reveal himself now, would enjoy their screams as he harnessed the power of the Electric City to send them into the finalest of beyonds. He would _relish_ it, and he would leave what was left of them there, so that his wife knew he was a man without mercy for those embroiled in her little games.

He would never harm her, but _only_ her. Let them know, he thought; let the workers _see._ He took a step toward his erstwhile children, then stopped as one looked up at the sign of the bar, suddenly soft-eyed.

“Well, at least we have the lady.” That was said in a most holy way, tender reverence for a deity.

“Suppose he isn’t all bad, if he’s with her,” the coal-dusted woman said with a shrug.

“Yeah. I guess. Still seems a right prick, but if I told her that…” The first looked away while the second snorted, elbowed him in his ribs.

“You’re just mad she’ll cut off the drinks.”

“That too.” He said; they were on the steps now, his last chance, but the fight had gone out of him. He watched, his heart sinking into his stomach, as his children left for his wife’s bar. It was as she had said, and that hurt most of all.

He turned tail, drifting back to his office. He wasn’t ready to eat crow in front of his wife, not yet. For now, he would pretend their disloyalty – like his wife’s – was beneath him, and he would throw himself into his work.

It took a lot of elbow grease, after all, to keep Hadestown going.


End file.
